The Brontes Went to Woolworths (17 page)

‘M’m . . . I see what you mean, but look here, Mill, supposing – – we did act in the manner you suggest . . . what should we say?’

‘That does need thinking out, I admit.’

‘Apparently, it must be something purely fantastic . . . could one, for instance, bid Miss Deirdre and Sheil to tea in Westminster Hall, in fancy dress? Or to play rounders in the Inner Temple with Hewart, and perhaps Eve and Scrutton?’ ‘Hah! You old pet ! No, that isn’t quite the line to take . . .
Isn’t
it a difficult game, Herb’?’

‘Terribly, terribly.’

The lights struck his hair to silver as he pondered.

16

‘How now, you secret, dark and midnight hag,’ I said, groping my way into the night nursery.

‘Oh, Deir’, I’m so more than glad it’s you!’

I sat down near her, on the bed. ‘You’ve been getting wrong with La Martin.’

‘I only said I wanted Freddie Pipson to come and sleep with me. Don’t you think he’d be comforting?’

‘Um . . . I see what you mean,’ I admitted, cautiously. Pipson’s erstwhile rivals, a furry cat with one glass eye missing and a rabbit lined at salient points with pink velvet, were cast upon the floor. The cat had belonged to me; I’d taken it to bed every night until I was past thirteen. ‘But you’d better only say that kind of thing to us,’ I suggested.

‘Why? Is it rude?’

‘A little bit. And La Martin isn’t us-ish enough to understand, is she?’

‘No! She talked as though I’d made a heenious offence.’

(
The hell she did
). ‘Why did you want Freddie?’

‘It’s because of Toddy. He used to come in and sit on the bed and hug me. But he wouldn’t, now.’

‘Hey! Why not?’

‘He doesn’t care for me any more. He’s
different
! He was “how do you do” at tea.’ A warm tear splashed on to my hand. I thought rapidly. ‘Perhaps he was afraid Mildred would be jealous?’

‘It wasn’t that. He could have made everything heavenly and he didn’t. He’s just a stupid old man!’ She nearly shouted.

‘Sheil! Toddy? Why, he’s a darling!’ But, again, I knew what she meant. ‘Now look here, minx and viperous vixen and very dirty doggess,’ I said, ‘you’re plain cross. You love Toddy
’ ‘I don’t, now.’

‘ and you’re being mean-pigs to him. What d’you think he’d say if he knew you’d thrown him over on the strength of one piffling tea-party?’ This seemed to be sinking in, and I laboured on. ‘He hasn’t any s.’s or d.’s, and we’ve all agreed he’d love them, so can’t we be d.’s?’

‘But they’re so
dull
!’

‘They needn’t be. Daddy never found
us
dull, and he was no end of a good fella. He used to say that for a young woman I was the nicest man he knew, and once when Katrine had chickenpox he put an O’Cedar mop on his head and imitated Martin Harvey far, far better thinging.’

‘Would he have liked
me
, do you think?’

‘My darling, don’t do the Little Orphan Annie on me. It doesn’t suit you a bit. You
know
he liked you.’ I was singularly relieved to hear the little crow of laughter that struggled up. ‘And don’t forget: Toddy is a darling. He’s fond of you, by the way.’

‘Does he love you, Deir’?’

‘I don’t think so, Sheil.’

‘Oh,
when
is he going to begin to love us again?’

I’m rather wondering that, too.

Someone was coming upstairs in a hurry, and mother stood in the doorway and snapped on the light. She had that look on her face which made one tense, a suppressed expression that Katrine and I associated with trouble.

‘
Toddy’s rung up!
’

‘What does he seem to want?’ I said, relaxing, and surprised at her tactlessness. I tipped her the face that meant family complication, and, for once, she failed to take me up. ‘He’s on the phone now.’

‘Tell him it’s time he was in bed,’ I answered, underlining the peevish note. ‘Saffy’s been upstairs ten minutes.’

‘Is Polly out?’ asked Sheil faintly.

‘Yes, a stuck dinner at the Berkeley with some
’

‘Come along!’ and mother fairly pulled at us, seizing any part of one that offered a purchase.

‘What you mean?’ I was cross with tiredness; the teaparty and Sheil had drained me. Mother began to put on her Martinesque face, smiling self-consciously.

‘He really has rung up. He wants to speak to you or Sheil.’ ‘
Whaaat?
’ ‘Hurry, darling.’

‘You don’t mean it!’

We plucked Sheil out of bed, and then – she jibbed; outfaced us, valiant, crumpled, tearful. And frightened. I saw the battle and bewilderment in her eyes as mother’s manner penetrated.

‘You go. We’ll follow,’ said mother’s jerk of the head.

‘Hullo’ . . . I said.

‘Ah, Miss Carne, is that you?’

‘It’s – it’s Miss Deirdre Carne speaking.’

‘Will you think me very tiresome if I ask you to send a message to Sheil?’

‘Oh, no, no
’

‘Well . . . h’m! I stupidly forgot to mention this afternoon that Mathewson – in short, he most kindly charged himself with the selection of my food for luncheon to-day. It was – um – a very trying case, and he felt that I needed something rather better than the fare supplied.’

‘How nice of him! But then, he is a dear.’

‘Nice . . . m’m . . . yes, he is a very capital fellow. So he had a most excellent feast dispatched from Hampton Court Palace, concluding with grapes from the great vine.’

‘Oh no, Sir Herbert! He never did that. Tit-bits from Simpsons’ or the Cock Tavern, perhaps, but not George Five’s grapes.’

‘Oh dear . . . I see.’

Rapidly I glanced up the stairs, then put my mouth close to the transmitter. ‘Sir Herbert, I can’t talk very loudly – can you hear?’

‘Yes, oh yes.’

‘Then, that’s not quite the right thing. I mean, Sheil knows as well as I do that Hampton Court is wrong. Look . . . tell her about what really happens. Anything. It’s the only way, now. If you have biscuits beside your bed at night, and whether you travel First, and things like that. You see, if it comes to that, we’re all bursting to know, too!’

‘Then, I’m not quite outside the pale?’

‘I should say not!’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw the descending procession. Oh well, neck or nothing. ‘Here’s Sheil, Toddy,’ I announced, and was too excited to feel sick. The look on Sheil’s face partly rewarded me. I put the receiver in her hand. (‘
Say “Hullo
”.’)

‘Hullo,’ admitted Sheil cautiously.

‘My dear, have I brought you out of bed?’

‘Yes. How do you do, Sir Herbert?’ (
Damn all children
). ‘“Sir Herbert”? What do you mean?’ At the offended tone Sheil brightened. ‘How do you do, Toddy?’

‘I’ve just had a whisky and soda, and I’m off to bed. Lady Mildred had one too.’

‘
Did
she?’

‘M’yes. She’s been reading, and then we talked.’

‘I see.’

‘And then Ethel came in and put the dog out.’

‘Who’s Ethel?’

‘Our parlourmaid. She gets fifty-five pounds a year.’

‘Oh, thank you. I don’t mind about that. You mean the Henderson one?’

‘Ah, yes. Henderson . . . when am I going to see you again, Sheil?’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t come round this evening, would you?’

‘I really am just off to bed, dear. But I will another night.’

‘Will you
really
?’

‘Yes, if I am not expected to meet that Saffyn fellow.’

Shrill laughter tickled his ear, and he glanced over his shoulder at his wife.

‘You
do
hate him, don’t you!’

‘I don’t think of him. I merely refuse to acknowledge him socially,’ answered Sir Herbert stiffly, and again his ear was tickled.

‘Oh Toddy, you
are
most lovely! . . . Toddy, what colour are your pyjamas?’

With a faint groan, Mrs Carne leant against the banisters.

‘My pyjamas? Red satin with two rows of gold buttons.’

‘No. You
know
they can’t be that. Katrine thinks they come from Swan and Edgar
’

‘Katrine? Who is this lady?’

‘Ha, ha, har! Shall I introduce you again, Toddy?’

‘If you please.’

‘Miss Katrine Carne – my sister. Sir Herbert Toddington. And, it wasn’t Katrine who said that about your pyjamas. It was – it was somebody else. May I know what colour they are?’

‘Oh really, my dear, I think some are lavender and some green.’

‘Silk in the summer and silk and wool in the winter!’

‘May I ask what night-wear
you
have got on?’

‘Oh, just wincey and the blue dressing-gown.’

‘I’m sure you are looking most delightful.’

‘Oh no. Not a bit.
Our
things aren’t interesting, you know. But your lavender is most lovely . . . please, what was Lady Mildred reading?’

‘
The Life of Charlotte Brontë
, my dear.’

‘Have we got it, do you think?’

‘I should say, for certain. Ask Miss Deirdre.’

‘I’ll read it at
once
, if mother’ll let me. Is she alive still?’

‘No.’

‘I thought perhaps she might be one of those sort of writers – like Thomas Hardy – who sounded as if they ought to be dead before they really were.’